


nightcall

by stellaviatores



Series: after [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: 1am is the best time for a breakdown, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gratuitous ABBA, Grief/Mourning, Jewish Paul, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Resurrection, Shiva - Freeform, blink and you'll miss it eating disorder mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15351522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatores/pseuds/stellaviatores
Summary: Faith, hope, and the great unknown that comes with bringing your partner back to life.





	nightcall

**Author's Note:**

> title from [london grammar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZYw0MQp_fI)
> 
> edit: many thanks to [tptigger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tptigger/pseuds/tptigger) for the notes on shiva!!

In a universe overpopulated by light and sound, so-called miracles and the kaleidoscope of coincidences behind them, Paul has always had a hard time keeping a hold on God. The thing about faith, Hugh had once told him, is that you don’t expect anything in return - it’s all give, no take. It’s waiting at an airport for a plane that might not even land. It’s thinking in new ways without knowing whether you’re right. It’s burying your fiancé and waking up in a cold sweat to find him in bed beside you, lips parted as he sleeps soundly.

The chrono on the bedside table glows steadily; 0100, and Paul knows he’s not going to sleep again tonight. He wipes a hand over his face, scrubbing off the lingering chill, but their home feels too sterile, too alien. They’ve moved back into Hugh’s old apartment in Brooklyn while he recovers, and though Paul could trace the lines of this studio with his eyes closed, something has changed. It could be him, his augments flush against his chest. It could be Hugh, rolling over and reaching out for Paul instinctively. Maybe it’s the pair of them, here, grounded on Earth when they’re both a part of something bigger now, something beyond themselves.

In the grand scheme of things, they don’t really matter. Paul knows this: he’s told himself over and over and it had really stuck some nights, the more desperate ones when Hugh was still horribly, irrevocably dead. Since getting him back - and if that’s a God’s doing, there isn’t enough time in eternity for Paul to thank her - the itch behind his ribcage has softened, a numbing truth easing over the anxiety he’s always kept hidden in the dusty corners of his mind. In this and every universe they’re just variables capable of being activated or eliminated, and while that used to fill him with dread, now all Paul feels is calm. It’s okay. Nothing is the same, but it’s okay.

He’s telling himself this when Hugh jolts violently, arms tangling in the sheets as he grasps for something real. Paul waits until he’s fully awake before wordlessly offering his hands, and thankfully tonight Hugh only takes a few seconds to hesitate before squeezing back.

“You tried to pull me back,” he whispers, voice raspy. Paul can’t tell if it’s from sleep or fear; probably both, judging by the panicked light in his half-shut eyes. “You were there and I was so close and you tried to pull me back in and fuck, Paul.” His grip twists, freeing his hands so they can cradle his head. “You tried to - you almost -”

“Hey,” Paul murmurs, leaning back but keeping his hands palm-up on the blanket. Hugh can’t see how they’re shaking, just a little, and it’s for the best. Instead he hangs his head between his knees and breathes in great gulping breaths, the deep, desperate kind he’s woken up to for close to a month now. Hugh’s getting better, of  he is; the best doctors and physiatrists in the Federation are building him from the ground up like a mentally stable version of Frankenstein’s monster. They don’t see this, though. They don’t see Hugh the way Paul does, and he wouldn’t let them even if he could.

In his own time Hugh’s breathing slows, his body uncurling. A crackle of almost tangible electricity, the same phosphorus blue Ripper had generated before jumping across the galaxy, sung over Hugh’s skin. For a moment it was the brightest thing in the room, maybe in the entire city, but just as quickly as it flared did it quiet, energy pulled back into its source. At least this time Hugh hasn’t disappeared and ended up buck-naked on a street in Abu Dhabi.

“Hey,” Paul repeats, a little louder. Hugh inclines his head, still tucked between his knees but clearly alert. “I’m here.”

That startles a chuckle from Hugh; nowhere close to the full-bodied laugh he used to throw Paul’s way, but getting there. “Hey yourself,” he says back, perhaps a touch caustic, but Paul’s in no position to argue back. Maybe that’s what’s missing - the old, familiar way they spoke, feigning back and forth without landing a hit. Hugh spent a long time in the network growing sharp; it’s only a matter of time before he strikes out and stabs deep.

Paul inhales around the broken glass in his throat. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Hugh snaps instantly, mechanically cruel. There’s a tense pause, words hanging heavily in the still air, and Hugh shivers. He raises his head, cautious, and stares at Paul’s hands just inches away from his thigh. An weighted sigh takes the last of the fight out of him and he shuts his eyes again, chagrined. “Sorry.”

Paul lets tension dissolve from his body too. Some battles are inevitable and tomorrow will carry its own reasons to fight; tonight, he chooses to let go. The compulsive need to set the record straight gnaws at him but Hugh is right there, breathing, warm and alive, and for once Paul allows the argument to simmer down. “It’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not. “I’ll, um. Make some tea?”

Hugh nods faintly. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “tea sounds good.”

“Chamomile,” Paul clarifies as he stands. “No caffeine.”

“You should be a doctor,” Hugh says, finally unfolding and stretching his stiff limbs until the joints crack. Even through a thick flannel pyjama shirt Paul can see the outline of his ribs, the dips and valleys he’s come to know far too intimately. He tries to ignore the nausea but, God, how can he pretend they’re okay when Hugh looks like that, like Paul did when he was at his sickest?

Instead of running - or, worse, collapsing at Hugh’s feet and falling to pieces like he’s wanted to do for weeks - he laughs awkwardly and puts on his abandoned boxer shorts, stumbling around in the dark for his slippers. “When Hell freezes over,” he retorts, fumbling for the lamp. He clicks it on after a few clumsy attempts and rips the curtain from their quiet scene, casting the room into hyper-saturated light.

Stage centre: Hugh, dark circles hanging from bloodshot eyes. His shoulders are far too thin and fragile and despite this he’s strong, he’s so fucking strong it hurts to watch him for too long, because he dares Paul to pity him and he just can’t. Downstage right: Hugh’s therapy journal beneath a pile of brand new nondescript classics, all the spines cracked and brittle. There’s an old fashioned fountain pen in Hugh’s desk that his great-grandmother passed down, but he’s taken to scribbling his thoughts with a chewed ballpoint he found behind the couch. Upstage left: a prescription packet with half the blisters popped. He’s been taking them, along with the other cacophony of hypos and vitamins that are supposed to bring him back to normal, wherever that may be now. Paul hasn’t pestered him about them and Hugh hasn’t stopped taking them; faith, it seems, runs both ways.

The audience: Paul, always Paul, casting one last look back at Hugh before he sets off for the kitchen. It’s 0123 and they’re not on duty now so he can call it far too early and leave it at that, and as he goes around the apartment turning all the lights on, a strange sense of hope makes a home in his chest. It’s like throwing on the house lights after a performance so you can see the stage for what it is - just another stage. Real life happens in the wings.

Paul flicks the kettle on and leans back against the counter, arms folded. Hugh’s apartment is soundproof like every other in the complex, but Paul likes to imagine that if he’s very quiet, he can almost hear the city churning below, people making their own way through the night. The exterior wall faces the east, an ocean of darkness speckled with electric splashes of colour glittering just beyond the glass, and Paul loses minutes staring out across it with unfocused eyes. He’s only brought back to the present by the muted click of the kettle and the distinctive sound of shuffling, sheepish footsteps behind him.

Hugh’s bundled himself up in a plush dressing gown, chin tucked against his chest so the fluffy collar brushes his cheeks. “It’s freezing,” he grumbles, walking over to Paul and laying his head on his shoulder at an angle they both know is going to hurt his neck. He’s silent for a long moment, content to nose along Paul’s pulse point and breathe him in. Then, softly, “I’m sorry, Paul.”

Paul swallows. “I love you,” he says quietly, aiming for casual but missing by miles. Hugh sways against him, pressing impossibly closer, and Paul gives in to the urge to wrap his arms around him and grip tight. If Hugh notices that his hands are trembling again, he has the good grace not to mention it.

“I love you too,” he says instead, lips just barely grazing Paul’s throat. Goosebumps erupt where he’s spoken and something achingly warm trickles down to Paul’s stomach and settles there, heavy and solid. Paul melts against Hugh, sagging with the sheer force of relief-exhaustion-grief that’s been bubbling within him since he came back from the network and knew without question that Hugh was gone.

“I sat shiva,” he blurts, the words running from his mouth in a desperate sprint. Hugh freezes. “When we got back to Earth, I sat shiva.”

“Paul -”

“I sat shiva and I’m sorry.” He can’t stop now, not when the pressure in his ribcage is reaching such impossible levels. Thoughts he’s been thinking for months and shoving back down his throat are burning now, dry tinder to an open flame. His eyes blur dangerously, stinging at the corners, and Paul can’t find it in himself to care. “I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry I pulled us into this mess; I’m sorry I took stupid risks and left you alone and - and, _fuck_ -” his voice collapses from underneath him, knocking the wind from his lungs, and suddenly it’s Hugh holding him up, gripping tight so he doesn’t fall apart.

“Shh, baby,” Hugh murmurs. His hand is stretched across Paul’s back, anchoring him in place while the other strokes through the overgrown hairs at the nape of his neck. Paul’s knees go weak and he can’t stop himself from crumpling against Hugh completely, shame prickling in his already constricted throat.

It had been years since he’d stepped foot in a synagogue, his own bar mitzvah only a distant memory, but something had drawn him to a quiet little temple in Paris after arriving back on Earth. The rabbi attempted to pry a story out of him, tried to lead him out of _aninut_ and towards a lighter truth _,_ but Paul has always been too stubborn for his own good. He had to do this alone, the way his Mom had taught him when he was seven and her own mother had passed away. It may not be orthodox or anywhere near healthy but it was the Stamets way, and even with his grip on God at its loosest, some traditions were meant to be kept.

The rabbi let him sit shiva in their temple. He sank to his knees and ignored the other congregants when they spoke to him and he tried to mourn but all that came out was _please, please, please come back_. It was the closest to a pronouncement of faith he was ever going to get and he figured if there was a God, she’d understand why.

“You couldn’t have known,” Hugh whispers. Paul shakes his head violently, squeezing his eyes shut tighter, phosphenes blooming against his lids. He had his chance to mourn. It’s too late now. “Baby, it’s okay. Let go.”

Paul balls his fists in Hugh’s gown. “I can’t,” he chokes out. His world is a mottled expanse of purple and blue and the heat of Hugh’s body, almost too hot, thrumming with life and breath and everything Paul had allowed himself to let go of too fucking easily by telling himself Hugh was really dead. If he were braver - if he were like Hugh, full of dazzling, blind belief - he would have never let go.

“You can,” Hugh promises. His hand stills on the small of his back, rubbing the base of his spine in small circles with his thumb. Paul cracks an eye open; all he can see is the blurred green cotton of Hugh’s shirt but somehow that helps. He focuses on an errant piece of lint sticking to Hugh’s front, watches as it rises and falls with the rest of Hugh’s chest. Gradually, in steady, precious increments, the pressure stretched taut over his ribs eases. He takes a shaky breath in, holds it close, and then finally lets go.

Hugh presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Hey,” he says quietly, “I’m here.”

Paul chuckles weakly. “Hey yourself,” he echoes, pulling back so he can look at Hugh properly. He’s tired, of course, eyes bloodshot and drooping, but behind the exhausted glaze there’s a flicker of something Paul knows very, very well. It tugs at the corners of Paul’s mouth until he’s almost smiling, and before he can stop himself another huff of laughter bubbles to the surface.

Hugh frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” Paul says, nuzzling back against his shoulder. His legs are starting to go numb and he’s distantly aware that he’s going to have one killer of a headache when he wakes up tomorrow, but this is one of those moments he wants to stay with. He wants to preserve it, imperfect and beautiful, tucked up in his mind for days when he can’t remember why they even bother at all.

Hugh shifts his weight and sighs. “We should head back to bed,” he murmurs, not making any attempt to move. “It’s late.”

“Just a little longer.”

“Paul -”

“Please.”

The moment holds, frozen in space between Hugh’s tongue and the rest of the universe; it’s give waiting for take, life existing where it shouldn’t, and slowly, carefully, Hugh’s arms relax around his waist. Paul’s hands creep up his sides and settle on his hips, light-years from the flirty way he used to do this but somehow this feels even more intimate. He sways to the silence, rocking gently against Hugh until he falls into step with Paul, just like they have a thousand times before.

He’s not sure when he starts to hum but the feeling has come back to his legs by the time Hugh leans back and quirks an eyebrow. “ABBA?” he asks, voice laced with something teasing from before Discovery. Paul grins in response and starts to sing, a little off-key and raspy.

“ _Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight,_ ” he warbles, deliberately distorting the consonants so Hugh will look at him like that again, “ _Won’t somebody help me chase the shadows away_?”

Hugh throws his head back, laughing. “Oh my God.”

“ _Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight_ -”

“ _\- Take me through the darkness to the break of the day._ ”

Paul’s face lights up immediately. “Yeah, now you’re getting it!” he crows, tugging at Hugh’s hands until they’re both in the centre of the kitchen, swinging around in a crude approximation of slow dancing. The low light catches on Hugh’s features and throws his slight dimples into full view, tiny dips in his cheeks that make Paul’s hurt from smiling so hard.

Hugh’s shaking his head but he’s launched into his own private performance, a mix of lyrics and melodies he’s picked up across the years, and even with his voice a touch quieter than it used to be, Paul thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. Somewhere along the way he slips into an old hymn, half-forgotten and riddled with looped canticles, and the residual anxiety leaks from Paul’s fingertips into the cold recycled air with each repeated refrain.

Paul’s eyes flutter shut and his body stills like a machine running out of fuel. “Come on,” Hugh whispers, leading him out of the kitchen and back to their bedroom. Paul puts up the flimsiest attempt at a fight, his head full of cotton and warmth, but there’s something so right about letting Hugh take over. They end up in bed, somehow, tucked under the covers with barely any time passing between events, and Paul can’t bring himself to care when Hugh tugs his arm over his side and snuggles up against his front.

Distantly Paul realises they’re cuddling for the first time in months, Hugh’s back exposed to him like it has been so many times before. But now isn’t the time for questioning. Instead he curls around Hugh and falls back into the waves of exhaustion, giving into the first and only miracle he has ever allowed himself to believe in.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://stellaviatorii.tumblr.com)


End file.
